


Freezing Water, Flickering Flames

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, this is sad ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 05:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15089777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: "Paul figures this must be what it’s like when two stars collide, but that’s how it’s always been with them — explosive, volatile. Give them the chance and they’d burn the world down for each other."India, 1968. Paul can't help John; it's too late for that. Maybe this thing was never supposed to last.





	Freezing Water, Flickering Flames

**Author's Note:**

> This is sad. There is literally nothing happy about this, so if you want fluff, don't read this lmao.

Paul’s standing on a pier, the wind whipping around him. It ruffles his clothes, blows his shaggy hair into his face. If he could smell, he knows the air would be suffocating: heavy with salt and a nauseating combination of polluted water and putrid fish guts. Blood from the butchered fish runs in rivulets, seeping into the cracks between the damp wood. Seagulls circle overhead like vultures. 

On one level, Paul knows he’s dreaming. He can’t feel anything — not the rough railing under his hand or the bone-deep chill that always seems to haunt the water’s edge.

Paul knows he’s dreaming, but he can’t wake himself up. He’s stuck on the pier, unable to move, staring helplessly. Anxiety thrums through him like an electrical current. 

This isn’t the first time Paul’s been to this pier. He always ends up here in his dreams, rewatching the same scene over and over again.

John is a little boy, standing only as high as Paul’s knees, his sandy hair cut short, face still rounded with baby fat. Paul can see him across the pier. Tears stream down his face as he watches his mother walk away, her red hair wild and untamed like an open flame. He lets out gasping, gut-wrenching sobs and screams after her.

Paul aches to go to him — he _needs_ to go to him. Paul can make it better; he can save John before it’s too late.

He frantically shouts John’s name, but the wind carries his voice out to sea, stealing it away like a riptide. Waves crash against the pier. Paul blinks water out of his eyes, tries to clear his vision, but it’s too late. He loses John in the crowd. 

Paul wakes up with a sick, clammy feeling in his stomach. The inside of his mouth tastes rotten. His head pounds in time with his heartbeat. 

Pale light is just barely coming in through the window, and Paul rolls onto his side, tugging the scratchy blanket up over his head. He breathes in the hot, stale air and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Jane’s sleeping peacefully beside him, her red hair splayed across the pillow like a halo. It reminds him of Julia’s hair. Nausea churns low in his gut; his breath hitches; he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until color blooms on the backs of his eyelids. The sound of his ragged breathing is overwhelmingly loud in his ears. He doesn’t know how Jane’s sleeping through it. 

Paul tries to calm himself down. He tries to remember what the Maharishi was teaching him earlier, but his thoughts are too loud, too disjointed — like the clashing of two competing chords. His whole body is shaking. Jane finally stirs beside him, and he bites back the sob building in his throat. 

“Paul?” her voice is husky with sleep. “What’re you doing?” 

“Nothing,” he chokes out. “Sorry.” 

The room is suddenly unbearably hot. Paul’s entire body pricks with heat. Sweat beads on his forehead, gathers at the nape of his neck. 

He rolls out of bed and stumbles in the dark, pulling on clothes at random. His hands shake as he gets his little stash of weed from its hiding place. He’s already got a couple joints rolled, and he shoves them both in his pocket. The Maharishi has a strict no-drugs policy, but Paul feels like his entire body is on fire, burning from the inside out. He needs something to calm him down. 

The ground outside the bungalow is damp; the smell of rain hangs in the air. Paul shivers as the sweat rapidly cools on his forehead, making his skin sticky. He tiptoes to the back of the bungalow and lights up a joint, holding the hot smoke in his lungs until his eyes water. He breathes the smoke out with a sigh, waves his hands through it and watches it dance.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” 

Paul jumps, almost dropping the joint, and lets out a nervous little giggle. 

“Jesus Christ, John! You scared the shit out of me.” Paul takes another drag. “What’re you doing out here? The sun’s not even up yet.” John quirks an eyebrow and motions for the joint as he walks up. Paul passes it willingly. 

“Couldn’t sleep so I decided to go on a walk. Then I smelled pot and knew it was you.” John smirks and blows smoke in Paul’s face. “I’m a little hurt you’re out here breaking the rules without me, Macca.” 

Paul shrugs and looks out at the mountains in the distance, the summits swallowed by the low-hanging clouds. He absently takes another drag. A bird in the trees above them starts chirping a song, and Paul answers it, whistling through his chapped lips. John snorts and plucks the joint out of Paul’s fingers. “Can’t help but make music, can you?” 

“Guess not.” Paul silently accepts the joint when John passes it back. He finishes it off and sticks the roach in his pocket to throw away later. His limbs suddenly feel heavy, like his body’s made of lead, and he sits down in the wet grass, shivering. 

“Hey, you alright?” John sits beside him, and Paul wishes they were closer. John always seems so far away now. Paul picks at the grass to avoid meeting John’s eyes. 

“Yeah. Just tired, you know?” 

“Couldn’t sleep either?” 

“Something like that.” Paul smiles wryly and brushes his hands off on his pants. Thunder rumbles off somewhere to the right and the birds start squawking, flying out of the trees in a mass exodus. Paul tips his head back and watches them disappear over the tree line. 

He wishes he could join them. 

“It’s gonna rain soon,” John says unnecessarily. Paul hums in acknowledgement, spares a glance over at John. The bungalow’s shrouding him in shadow but he’s backlit from the weak light filtering through the trees. He looks like an angel and devil all rolled into one. Paul half expects him to unfurl a pair of wings, imagines him licking his lips with a flick of a barbed tongue, venomous as a snake. 

Paul’s head aches, a dull throbbing pain that builds behind his eyes. He shakily pulls the other joint out and lights up, sucking in sharply. It’s too much smoke at once and he chokes. John laughs as Paul doubles over, wracked with wet, hacking coughs. 

“Not funny,” he manages to pant. John grins impishly and steals the joint from Paul, smirking.

“Sorry, son,” he says on the exhale. “But it was a little funny.” Paul pouts and reaches over for the joint, but John moves his hand, holds it up over his head. “You sure you can manage some more of this? Wouldn’t want you to lose a lung there.” 

“Sod off!” Paul leverages himself forward and swipes at the joint, half falling in John’s lap as he does so. His right hand lands splayed out high on John’s thigh, right in the crease of his hip. The heat of John’s crotch blazes under the tips of Paul’s fingers, and they both freeze. John’s still holding the joint up high above his head, the flames licking down the white rolling paper until it burns down to the roach and John drops it with a hiss. 

The world seems to snap back into motion all at once. The smoldering roach lands in the grass by John’s shoe; he sticks his burned fingers in his mouth; Paul falls back, his tailbone smarting where it hits the hard ground. His thin, cotton pants pull at the numb skin of his ass. He’d forgotten to put on any underwear, and the back of his pants are soaked through. 

Even in the dim lighting, Paul can see the unmistakable bulge of an erection tenting John’s trousers. He's not doing anything to hide it, but he’s looking out at the forest, away from Paul. His jaw moves back and forth as he sucks on his fingers, and Paul finds it ridiculously erotic. He flushes in the cold air and shudders as his prick stiffens. The ridge of the head is clearly visible, and there’s a dark spot already blooming across the light blue material. The breath catches in his throat. John’s whips his head over and stares openly at Paul’s crotch. Paul’s never felt so exposed in his life. 

“Paul—”

“Don’t.” Paul clenches his fists. “I can’t.” 

“Yes you can.” John’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I love you, Paul.”

“Please stop saying that.” 

“I know you love me too.” 

“Stop!” Paul’s voice breaks; he covers his ears with his hands like a child. “Please.” 

John scoots closer. His breath is warm on Paul’s face, ghosting over his lips like a gentle breeze. His hands circle Paul’s wrists and he gently pulls them down. Paul screws his eyes shut.

“Look at me.” Paul shakes his head. John kisses him. “Let me in, baby. I love you.” 

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” Paul breathes. John swallows the words away and kisses him again. 

“I love you.” 

Paul lets John pushes him down against the ground. It’s uncomfortable, a twig stabs at his lower back. He grunts when John grinds his palm against his erection. 

“John—”

“Lets go to my room.”

Paul’s arguments die in his throat. He lets John tug him through the ashram just as rain starts to fall, pattering softly against the ground. 

John locks his door and starts undressing. Paul shoves his pants off and his erection bobs against his stomach. He grips it and spreads the precum pearling at the tip. John falls on the bed. The mattress springs squeak in protest. He’s already fumbling around with the Vaseline, working himself open. 

Rain starts pounding on the roof. Lightning crackles outside the window, illuminating John in a brilliant flash of blue. Paul climbs onto the bed and grabs John’s legs, shoving them up in the air. His hands tremble; he momentarily struggles to get a solid grip on John’s slick skin. The wind howls outside the window like a wounded dog. John is talking in a low husky voice, a stream of words and sentences that bleed together in Paul’s ears. 

“Come on, put it in, fucking do it, _do it.”_

Paul snaps his hips forward and shoves inside John in one fluid motion. John lets out a funny little noise, something caught between a gasp and a sigh. Paul’s thrusts are uneven and animalistic — all instinct. He figures this must be what it’s like when two stars collide, but that’s how it’s always been with them — explosive, volatile. Give them the chance and they’d burn the world down for each other. 

Paul moves as if he’s on autopilot, acting without thinking. He feels flushed and disoriented like he has the flu. John cups Paul’s face and peers up at him with big, open eyes. His glasses are folded on the side table, and for the first time in forever, Paul can really see him.

The intensity in John’s stare scares him, makes him feel woozy. That sad little boy from the pier is looking up at him, all his fear and pain on clear display. 

Paul blinks and seems to crash back into himself, suddenly painfully aware of his surroundings: the storm raging outside, John’s rough hands holding his face, the sweat running down his back. 

Paul’s hips stutter to a stop, and John slows with him. 

“Paul?” he whispers, voice edged with concern. “What’s wrong?” Paul shakes his head as his cock goes soft inside John. He pulls out and sits back on his heels, dazed. John props himself up on his elbows and frowns. “Paul?” he asks again. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.” 

Paul feels like a dead leaf, disintegrating underneath John’s weight, tattered pieces floating away in the wind. 

“I don’t know how to help you. I keep trying but I _can’t_. I can’t do it.” His voice is raw, as if he’s been screaming. 

_“Johnny, I’m coming. Don’t cry. I can help you. I’m right here! I’ll take you to your mummy!”_

John sits up and gently brushes Paul’s sweaty hair out of his face. Paul jerks away from the touch. John’s hand stays suspended in midair. His eyes are wet. 

“Paul, baby, what’re you talking about? I’m okay. Honest.”

Paul shakes his head wordlessly, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. 

“No John,” he finally manages to say. “Ever since Brian you’ve been so fucking _sad_ —” Paul’s voice breaks and he groans in frustration. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. It _hurts_.” 

Paul climbs off the bed and starts getting dressed. 

“Paul,” John pleads. “Please don’t go. Lets talk about this.” 

_“Mummy, please don’t go.”_

Paul tastes vomit in the back of his throat. He turns his back to John and stares at the wall. There’s a little postcard hanging by a single piece of tape. 

“I’m a cloud in the sky. Look for me,” Paul reads. 

“Paul, please!” John shouts in frustration, his voice panicked. 

_“Mummy, please!”_

“I love you, John.” 

The door shuts behind him with a heavy thunk.

Paul pauses and waits for John to come after him, but he never does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Idk why I always end up writing about India. I just think it's a fascinating point in time, and I love exploring the headcannon that they ended it in India. 
> 
> Anyway, comments are always appreciated. Sorry this was so fucking sad??


End file.
